The Last Word

A word of praise

For a blandest day

Can catapult self confidence


Can you have souvenirs

Without going anywhere?

Dimples show when she smiles.


The rain comes in January

Do not put you fingers 

In the opening of sea anemones.


Lots to remember

She layers them.

One can bleed to death.


On the death bed

The most common is regret

All the postponements.


In lost conversations

She finds the missing pieces

How the bridges are formed.


One can read the sadness

The hardship of reconciling the past

The last word can be God.


note: The day is sunny, cool, and pleasant with blue skies. I started the day joining the other volunteers to pick up trash on the bike trail and along the railroad tracks of the Wine Train to celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. About 2 hours later after I got home I walked to the river.


why treat life as a battlefield

The “reciprocal sustenance” of intertwining trees
words that animate a page
bringing playfulness and ambiguity
converging roads of destiny and invention.

What will bridge us to the sacred?
Awareness and hunger,
long hours looking at a river,
walking on a vast field of tulips?

I’m thinking of something else:
understanding on how to approach silence,
when the last days come, the attitude of surrender:
life, not as a battlefield,
not “to die bloodied and exhausted”

only want peace.